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Chapter 2: A Growing Obsession
The lunch bell echoed throughout Kuoh Academy, signaling the end of another monotonous morning. The cafeteria was buzzing with the usual chatter, the low hum of conversations blending with the clatter of trays and silverware. Students, clustered in groups around the tables, enjoyed their meals, oblivious to the stirrings of a different kind of conversation at the far side of the room.
Aika, having just picked up her lunch, hesitated at the entrance. She wasn't used to the noise of the cafeteria, nor did she care much for it. But today, something felt different. As she walked through the room, her eyes naturally drifted toward a small group of students sitting together at one table. They were whispering in hushed tones, casting occasional glances over their shoulders, as if speaking in secrecy.
"Did you hear about the guy?" one of them said, voice barely above a whisper.
Aika's curiosity piqued, and she instinctively moved closer, trying to catch a better glimpse. It didn't take long before she heard another student chime in.
"He's weird, isn't he? Abel, I mean. He's... emotionless, right? Just completely detached. I don't think he feels anything."
Emotionless. The word lingered in her mind, sinking in like a weight. Aika was already intrigued. She had seen him around—Abel, the guy with the striking, ethereal look. His pale white hair, his piercing eyes, and his subtle elegance made him stand out among the sea of students at Kuoh Academy. But it was the rumor about him being emotionless that caught her attention.
Another student continued, their voice filled with a mix of admiration and confusion. "I heard he doesn't even care about anything. Like... he doesn't react to anything that's happening around him. Not the bullying, not the stares, nothing."
Aika's brows furrowed slightly as she processed the information. Abel had always caught her eye, not just because of his looks, but because of how... distant he seemed. She had always wondered about him—what he was really like, why he always appeared so disconnected. Now, hearing the rumors only deepened her curiosity.
She glanced back at the table where the gossip was coming from, noting how the students' words seemed to fuel the mystery surrounding him. Aika could hear one last comment before she moved toward her own seat.
"Is he... broken? Or is he just playing some weird game with everyone?"
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The weight of their conversation hung in the air as Aika took a seat at her usual spot, setting her tray down with a quiet sigh. She wasn't one to care much for rumors, but there was something about Abel that drew her attention, something she couldn't ignore. It wasn't just his looks; it was the way he carried himself, as if the world didn't exist for him.
Her thoughts lingered on him, as they had been for some time now. She couldn't quite put her finger on it, but there was something fascinating about the way he seemed to be apart from everyone else. She wasn't sure if she felt pity or envy, but the fact that he remained untouched by anything—the gossip, the drama, the constant whirlwind of high school life—made him seem almost untouchable.
"Emotionless, huh?" Aika murmured to herself.
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Abel didn't linger in the cafeteria longer than necessary. After hearing a few of his classmates whispering about him, he stood up and headed for the exit, his steps unhurried but deliberate. He didn't feel the need to rush; his life had never required urgency. The usual mix of students passed him by, most of them too wrapped up in their own worlds to even notice his presence.
It wasn't until he reached his home that the familiar weight of reality settled back in. His apartment wasn't much—a small, dimly lit space that barely felt like a home. The walls, a dull beige, had seen better days. The furniture was sparse, barely functional. He lived alone, for the most part. His parents were rarely around during the day, but when they were, it was never peaceful.
Abel stepped inside and locked the door behind him, the sound of the deadbolt sliding into place offering him the briefest sense of security. The air in the apartment felt heavy, thick with the lingering stench of alcohol that never seemed to fully dissipate. He pushed through the kitchen, where empty bottles and half-finished meals were left scattered across the counter, remnants of his parents' neglect and their chaotic lifestyle. The faint sound of muffled shouting could be heard from the living room, a constant reminder of the tension that ran beneath the surface of everything.
He didn't bother with dinner. There was nothing in the fridge anyway. He walked into his bedroom, the only place in the apartment where he could truly retreat into solitude. He pulled the door shut behind him and sat on the edge of his bed. The room was dim, the thin curtains doing little to block out the faded glow of the setting sun. It was always like this—quiet, but suffocating. There was no comfort here, no warmth.
Abel knew that his parents were home, but he had long stopped caring about their presence. His father, when he was sober, was indifferent at best—silent, brooding, never acknowledging Abel's existence unless it was to throw a taunt or a harsh word. But when his father drank... that was when things became different. Dangerous.
His mother wasn't much better. She would spend her days in and out of drunken stupors, her volatile moods swinging between neglect and cruel outbursts. There were times when she would forget he existed altogether, and other times when her anger would flare, leaving Abel with no choice but to endure it.
It was an arrangement that had been in place for as long as he could remember. Abel had long given up the idea of family, of love. He didn't expect to be cared for or protected. It wasn't that he *wanted* to be ignored—it was simply that he had learned it was easier that way. If he remained silent, remained invisible, maybe they would leave him alone. It didn't always work, but it was the only tactic that kept him safe.
Tonight, however, there was an odd tension in the air. The unmistakable sound of his father's footsteps echoed down the hallway, heavy and unsteady. Abel didn't move. He didn't have to. He knew what would come next.
His father would come in, his words slurred, his breath heavy. He had no interest in confrontation. It was an interaction Abel had long learned to ignore. His father was like the other people in his life—just another obstacle to navigate. Abel didn't need to be affected by them. He had learned the art of emotional detachment years ago, but in reality, it wasn't something he had to practice. It was just how he was. Emotionless.
He closed his eyes briefly, leaning back against the wall. The weight of the day—the questions from Aika, the unsettling feeling that lingered—felt distant, almost trivial. Why had it even mattered? Why had her curiosity, her questions, unsettled him? He didn't care about those things. He wasn't lonely. He didn't need anyone, nor did he want anyone.
But Aika had made him question that, even for a brief moment. Her presence had unsettled him, but not in the way most things did. It wasn't discomfort—it was something different. It was as if her questions had chipped away at the calm he had built for himself, a calm that had been unshakable for years. He didn't know why he kept thinking about her. It didn't make sense.
Abel's eyes wandered to the window, where the last rays of the sun cast a faint orange glow across the room. The world outside seemed so distant, so foreign. Everything felt muted in his world, as if the colors were less vibrant, the sounds quieter. He was an observer, not a participant. He watched life happen around him, but never felt it.
The door to his room rattled slightly, and he knew it was his father, stumbling down the hallway. Abel didn't move. He never did. The noise was just part of the background of his life—something he had learned to tune out. There was no need to acknowledge it.
Aika had asked him if he was lonely. It was a simple question, but it had lingered in his mind. The truth was, he didn't know if he was lonely. He had never felt that void people spoke of, the emptiness that supposedly made them yearn for connection. He had been alone for so long, and it had never bothered him. It was just the way things were. So why had Aika's question caused him to pause? Why had it made him think for a moment that maybe—just maybe—there was something more to life than this cold, detached existence?
He shook his head, pushing the thought aside. It didn't matter. He didn't need anything or anyone. He was fine the way he was.
The sound of his father stumbling down the hallway grew louder. Abel's fingers curled into a fist, the only physical response to the noise. He didn't react in anger, though. He didn't react at all. It was just another part of his life. Another thing he had learned to endure without feeling.
And yet... even as he told himself this, the thought of Aika lingered in the back of his mind, stubborn and insistent.